Reflections on a Townie Chick

These humid winter days do loosen up a 70 year-old. I just came from the Firpo Tower Mall on Bedford. As always, packed full of wannabes. But the Mega-fan on top of the power plant did clear some of the smog. Same old crap, though: holographic tattoos and the harsh techno-country retro look on the guys, LED mini-skirts and magnet bras on the ladies. Ah, Ladies: I gotta say that when it’s this hot, there are many pretty things bouncing about. But today I saw something that brought me way back. Somehow, somewhere, a hipster woman sporting feathered hair had found an old tattered R.E.O. Speedwagon cut-off t-shirt from the 1980s. Her style: The Townie Chick.

As I sit here in my backyard drinking Seven and Sevens I feel the urge to tell you about a Townie I once knew. It’s a story of becoming a man at the hands of a woman. I still throb at the thought, so just bare with me as I dictate into my Mac GlassCard T10.

When I first saw her I was just 14 and only a week into my freshman year at a small hippie-founded boarding school in Northern California. I had just grown taller and thinner and took off my thick–rimmed glasses. Women noticed me but I was a shy-boy.

Thighs encased in super-tight faded jeans pressed against the log she was sitting on. The whole school was on a hike and she sat there as I passed, an older male student kneeling in front of her. I looked up along those thighs (a rip below the crotch revealed bulging flesh) and then up to the cut-off faded R.E.O. Speedwagon tank top that barely contained breasts jiggling in glorious bralessness. I raised my eyes after a lingering moment to a wide-lipped smile and mischievous eyes looking at me from behind heavy and feathered bangs. Her eyes were fixed on me with a look of sexy bemusement. Was she messing with me? She looked like she had a plan.

Her name was Sally Partee (I’m not lying) and she was a Townie Chick, part of a group of pioneers in their own right, listening to Led Zeppelin while hanging out in the backseat of big cars in parking lots littered with empty cans of beer and Marlboro Lights. They don’t look like models but they’ve got attitude. Townie chicks. Yes, indeed.

She was 16. Less than a week after that penetrating stare I was in the hallway outside the dining room where girls and boys lingered. Ms. Partee slowly approached me with that smile. I quivered.

"You know that I’m free, lover" she brusquely said in a gravelly voice. Her smile revealed a tooth with a significant chip in it. I felt a hand firmly grab one of my butt-cheeks so that three of her fingers were significantly inside my crack, wedging my white carpenter pants. She then gently patted my ass, smiled, and sauntered away in jeans so tight they made her hop like a bunny.

Thus began an affair that would stick with me forever. I’d return to my room in the boy’s dormitory to find notes on my bed that said "Missed you here lover" in flowery writing. In the co-ed smoking areas I’d be left nearly alone with her. As I looked on in doe-eyed awe, she would straddle one of my legs, her hands on my shoulders and slide back and forth slowly, emitting deep "mmmmms." In the student lounge she would lay her head in my lap and move it in a circular pattern until my pants would be bulging with a pleasant ache that told me I was on the verge of something. Like a burgeoning teen I tried to play it cool, going with it, letting anything gush over. Like I was floating in the warm surf.

Then, one fateful night I went to the movies with friends. 2001: A Space Odyssey was playing. Right when the lights went down two figures approached and one plunked down next to me. "Hello there," I said excitedly. "Hi," Partee slowly replied.

Now, for those of you who aren’t 20th Century film buffs, 2001: A Space Odyssey is a long drawn-out atmospheric movie that’s kind of slow for a teenager, even back then. No doubt, I believe in the director Stanley Kubrick’s genius, but this movie virtually promotes adolescent nookie.

Soon our bare arms were touching and they felt warm and smooth. After a little while, she put her hand on my leg, right above the knee. I could feel myself getting hard in fits and starts. There is a very long, quiet scene in 2001 where the astronaut is trapped outside his spacecraft by a rebellious computer named HAL. To the young and naïve eye it seemed quite boring, the computer locking the astronaut outside the ship. As the scene went on and on I became more and more excited, and it wasn’t because of the movie.

I tried to take some initiative and fumbled trying to find a zipper on her pants. Awkwardly I tried to put my fingers between her legs and rub, distracted by her hand now gently kneading my package. She looked at me with mixture of effort, appreciation, and a schoolteacher’s unspoken nod that says you did the right thing without having to be told.

"They’re overalls, dummy," she whispered close in my ear and smiled again. She unbuttoned a side. Guiding my hand into the heated crease between her thighs, I managed to creep my fingers down and got a rush feeling how much hair she had. A real woman! But the angle of my hand through the opening in her overalls didn’t allow much movement. On the screen, the astronaut floated outside the closed hatch.

I struggled to please her. It was the right thing to do. But the end was near for me. She had undone my zipper and got her hand deep inside my tan army pants and gently lifted out a very stiff young cock with thumb and forefinger. She cupped my balls with the tenderness of an ornithologist with a couple of fresh Osprey eggs.

She stuck two fingers deep inside her wide shiny lips, and they came out wet with spit. She rubbed them around my virgin head and shaft, which now felt as slippery as cooked okra. My cock glistened with the light coming from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The man in the spacesuit was helplessly floating outside the craft, holding onto it, trying to find a way in past HAL. She looked calmly at the screen, glanced down and smirked with complete confidence. My left hand clutched the side of my seat, my right fingers worked helplessly inside her overalls, cramping up my forearm.

Partee wrapped that masseuse’s hand around the base of my cock and with a strong, steady upward stroke stiffened me to a point that felt like ossification. I could feel a distant tingle near my coccyx that flowed up through my hip and into my belly and chest. Firm, steady strokes. Slippery and glistening. My skull heating up. My legs tensing. A gush like I had never felt before began to flow from my pelvis, through my belly button, down into my thighs. It ended up like a centrifuge in my groin.

"Open the door!"

I was hot, body pulsing with blood, head heavy, hardly able to breathe.

"HAL, open the door!"

She continued strong vigorous pulls up and down my full shaft. My back was unconsciously arching and my pelvis convulsed wildly in a series of powerful fits. Oh boy, did that feel good!

Then I opened my eyes. Shuddering and short of breath, I leaned back in my seat, only to realize that my goods were exposed in the open air of the movie theater!

I was also wearing tan pants and dark blotches began to appear all over them. Holy shit! How could I produce this much cum? The HAL scene was still on the screen and most people seemed to have cleared out around us. I freaked, retracted my hand from the awkward position in her overalls, smiled at her, got up and sped down the aisle looking straight ahead, trying to pull my shirt down as far as I could. In the men’s room I frantically tried wiping away the evidence spilled all over my groin and thighs.

But in the middle of my panic I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was smiling. Joyfully, I abandoned 2001 and ran two miles back to school.

Partee wasn’t interested in me after that monumental event. She was friendly and all but had perhaps accomplished what she set out to do. And after that year, I never saw her again.

But I’ll never forget her: the Townie chick who did what she pleased and had an attentive audience and student in yours truly. I haven’t listened to REO Speedwagon since the 1980s but thank god for those hipsters who reach back into the netherworld of fleeting American culture and dig out those reminders. Because of them, even an old man in a screwed up world like me can once again feel the pulse of life through his loins.

Contributor

Bil LeBoutillier

Bill LeBoutillier is a retired interactive Web designer living in Williamsburg.

RECOMMENDED ARTICLES

DEC 16-JAN 17 | Art Books

To mark the end of the year, the Rail’s Art Books editors, Ben Gottlieb, Phillip Griffith, and Greg Lindquist, and Managing Director Sara Christoph each selected a notable book from the past year to share with our readers. This is not a list of the best books of the year. Instead, it is an informal survey meant to highlight the diversity of art book publishing now.

NOV 2016 | Music

The past few years Ive had to write one of these years best columns, the Rail has had some compelling angle on the concept that allowed me to push past my initial misgivings, some Poundian premise to make it new that let me forget I was engaged in an arbitrary enterprise. Since weve scrapped the high-concept approach this year, Ive told myself that what I need to do is simply embrace the artificiality of the thing.

DEC 16-JAN 17 | ArtSeen

Among the many ironies of the ongoing Palestinian crisis, a salient one for visitors to this year’s Qalandiya International (Qi2016) was that no individual could have visited all of its sites. The third iteration of this promising young biennial stretched from the West Bank to the United Kingdom, with exhibitions in Ramallah, Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Gaza, Haifa, Amman, Beirut, and London. Besides showcasing broad international solidarity for the Palestinian cause, Qalandiya International’s multi-site itinerary demonstrated the obdurate reality that some borders are impassible. No matter the nationality of one’s papers, at least one of Qalandiya International’s locations likely represents deep political contention.

APR 2018 | Dance

As a continuation of a drawing and text series produced during Gyun Hur’s time as writer-in-residence at Danspace Project Platform 2018, Gyun invited Helly Minarti, a visiting dance curator/scholar from Jakarta, to join her in performative writing on a Google doc as a response to a lively conversation she had with Helly at a café this month.